Sarah paled, swallowed visibly, and nodded for him to go on.
"The foundation established in Haley's name is holding its annual dinner." He moved closer to the table, looming over her, deliberately not sitting down. "I think you should go. It's a small, private affair, but just public and formal enough that people will be on their best behavior. Then everyone will know that Sarah Linwood's back in town. It won't be Annie's secret anymore."
She nodded, grim-faced and so pale Garvin thought she might faint. She ran a trembling hand over her mouth, and a small moan escaped. "Garvin...My God, you don't know what you're asking of me. I should never have come home. Never."
"Sarah, I'm not going to say I can understand what you've been through. I can't. Whatever your role in the murders, or Vic's, whatever I believe or suspect—I'm not going to stand here and judge you, tell you I understand when I don't." He leaned over the table. "But I know this, Sarah. Annie Payne has seen enough of Vic Denardo."
"What time?" Sarah asked, her voice croaking.
"I can pick you up at seven."
"And Annie?"
"Cynthia invited her. Under the circumstances, I think it'd be best if she skipped this one."
"She won't want to, you know."
"No. She won't want to. I'm meeting her at her gallery to make sure she gets home safely. I'll talk to her."
"If I were you, Garvin, I would remember that Annie Payne has no illusions that she's anything but alone in the world. Her life's stripped all of that away." Sarah settled back, calmer. "Perhaps she's luckier than the rest of us."
Garvin thought of her standing in her gallery with her big dog and her eyes wide with fear, determination, anger. She was pragmatic and self-reliant, and she understood on a gut level that life was unpredictable and unruly. But he'd also sensed in her a secret desire to believe in permanence, to find something that would last through the next storm that swept through her life.
"I should have known," Sarah mumbled to herself, "that nothing good could have come from my return home. I should have stayed away—"
"Playing the martyr won't help now, Sarah." His harsh tone surprised him, but he couldn't afford to have her sliding into the swamp of self-pity and regret. It wouldn't do anybody any good, including her.
Her vivid eyes fastened on him without anger. "I could pack up and be out of here before seven o'clock. I'm still a rich woman, you know. I could find someone to get me out of here."
Garvin shrugged. "It's your choice. I'm not going to baby-sit you. But running won't help. Vic'll still need to be convinced Annie doesn't know where you are."
"You always were a hard-hearted bastard, Garvin MacCrae. I wonder if Haley ever knew that about you."
She hadn't, he thought. Not Haley. She saw what she wanted him to be.
"Well, I suppose we often see in others what we need to see." Sarah waved him off, suddenly impatient. "Go on. Let me think. Come back at seven. If I've decided to go, I'll go. If not—well, then, I won't. I know you could force me, but you won't. You're hard-hearted, Garvin, but you're not cruel. You wouldn't force me to see my brother against my will."
He put one hand down on her cheap table and leaned toward her. "Let me make myself clear, Sarah. Annie Payne has Vic Denardo on her case because of you. If I have to stomp on your sensibilities and do something I wouldn't ordinarily do, I will."
"You're in love with her," Sarah said, shocked.
Garvin refused to listen. "Seven o'clock."
He tore open the door and shut it hard behind him, aware of Sarah Linwood staring after him as if she saw through to his heart better than he did. Playing the artist, the observer. Deciding he was in love with Annie Payne.
"Hell," he muttered.
He headed out across the Golden Gate, up to his house, where there was no Vic Denardo, no Annie Payne, nothing but the isolated life he'd crafted for himself in the years since Haley's death. He didn't stay. He drove too fast down to the marina. Michael Yuma had sandwiches, coffee, and commentary about his friend's surly mood, his own mood nicely unaligned with Garvin's.
"Should be a fun afternoon," Yuma said. "Think I'll go find some paint to scrape."
Ten minutes later, Ethan Conninger found his way into the supply store, where Garvin was still nursing a cup of coffee at the counter. Ethan had on one of his conservative money-manager suits. Garvin couldn't imagine being cooped up in an office again. It hadn't seemed confining five and ten years ago, but now—hell, he thought, there were days his own skin seemed confining.
Ethan slid onto the stool next to him. "You're just the man I'm looking for," he said. "Got a minute?"
"About that. There's coffee if you want it. It's fresh."
"No, thanks. Look, I don't want to stir up trouble, but I talked to Cynthia today. She's planning to take Annie Payne to lunch next week. Let her think it's because she's taking her under her wing."